The Princess and the Bat
by KatxValentine
Summary: When Harley Quinn decides to be free of the Joker for good, only one man can protect her from his inevitable onslaught. It's so unlikely, the way worst enemies turn to so much more. All you need is a little blackmail. -Eventual Harley/Bruce-
1. An Unexpected Visitor

Okay, so I'm going to admit that the idea was a little rushed as I have to be up in, like, four hours, but this is a random, out-on-a-limb topic that kicked me in the head. I was like '…Harley plus Batman? Hmmmm….' And thus, this came about. Don't kill me, please. And yeah, the idea needs some intellectual tweaking but I'm working on it! Feedback would be much appreciated. I don't own diddly.

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The Batmobile had secured its way safely into the confines of Wayne Manor, but the main fact that went unnoticed was it had a little birdie following. This birdie was none other than former Dr. Harleen Quinzell, deemed the esteemed (or not so esteemed) 'Harley Quinn'. She was the Joker's little pawn, his plaything, and to be perfectly honest she was exhausted of it.

Exhausted may not have been the word. Perhaps injured was, though. The lithe, blonde clown was peppered with dark bruises and twisted cuts, the likes of which flared a deep red and oozed onyx in the moonlight. It was, in fact, disgusting. The scent was a tinged, metallic kind of smell. It was enough to make her gag.

Red refused her, said there was no way she was taking Harley in for good until the clown princess rid herself of her obsession and had the credentials to prove it. It was like she needed to detoxify the Joker from within her veins, and she'd do that ASAP if it meant Ivy would accept her.

But in order for this, she needed to have someone to _keep_ her from crawling back to the freak-show. The Bat could do that, with the right helping hand. She'd been a brilliant psychiatrist once, right? She could deduce that he _was_ Bruce Wayne being where the Batmobile had zoomed in at speeds that shamed the limit.

She'd had her reservations before she'd firsthand seen it, anyway. They had the same impossibly large build, the same fierce, glittering crystal eyes. And they both had that weird, wealth-born square jaw thing going on. The Batman's jaw was large enough to crush peanuts with. Bruce's was not far behind.

Blackmail. Blackmail would be her savior. The Asylum was easily accessible: the Joker just needed to pop in and flick some security switches and she'd be his again. Hideouts? He knew them all. He was a master of location. But _living_ with the enemy? He wouldn't stand a chance, especially against do-goody Bats. So she'd reform. Yes, that was it. She _swore _she would reform. And when she was on the proverbial, psychotic-free straight and narrow, she'd go right to Ivy and prove she didn't need Mistah J.

Weary, the blonde trudged up the hill to the front steps of the manor. Scaling the gate had proven an easy task. No matter how high the fence, she'd been a gifted gymnast and it showed with great flexibility. The bars were little to no sweat for her, even with fractured ribs and a black eye. The only issue was that the black eye made seeing nearly impossible.

Where was the doorbell? Why was it so damn hard to find? Her gloved hand was groping for it, but she couldn't seem to get a hold on the slim, circular button. She realized gradually that the bell was out of her vision and all the way to the left.

When it rang, the sound was much louder than she was prepared for. It was like a bell in a gothic tower, flooding the halls instantly with its imposing thunder. Harley jumped back in her blood-soaked skin.

The man who answered the door was Alfred Pennyworth, but she had no clue of that. All she knew was this old man was glancing down at her, his brows furrowed in confusion with a scowl of distaste on his face. She watched half of him turn and yell, "Master Bruce! We seem to have a stray problem."

Of course, only half of him seemed to be there. Everything was compounded into a right half.

And then there he was, the man of the hour, himself. Clad only in a tight, black t-shirt and a pair of boxers descended a sleepy Bruce Wayne. The obvious evidence of exhaustion was clear on his face. His eyes were a dull snowflake blue, the most magnificent shade a person could ever witness. How were they even possibly that color naturally? Harley's were only a shade or two darker, a pale to his pallid. She marveled for a second at how truly massive he was in human form, sans giant, black truck-costume. _This _was _the Batman._

When he saw her, though, when the light leaked in from the tall doors and the moon washed over her pale body, his jaw dropped to the floor. The moon's glow has turned the former scarlet black, but once she slipped inside it was plain as day all over her, a cherry-red reminder of her own stupidity. Harley Quinn was run ragged with dark blood.

"G'evenin', Bats."


	2. Uncomfortable Situations

Wow, I'm really amazed at the amount of hits this one got! Truth be told, I'm an Arkham Asylum junkie on my Playstation 3 right now, so that was sort of what sprung to mind this idea. That, and I've just been re-watching Batman: The Animated Series. If you're a psycho-fan like I tend to be, I recommend buying the boxset. It's pretty reasonable for all the seasons in a pretty package. I'm eagerly awaiting my Mask of the Phantasm DVD—I miss that movie _so_ bad. Anyhow, straying too far off track while still remaining_ on _track—I don't own Batman or any of these characters. I appreciate the reviews and, yes, Bruce parked the Batmobile in the Bat-cave entrance, but Harley tracked it to Wayne Manor. I'm afraid I wrote this on a bit of a whim and I could have gotten my facts a bit straighter, but the corrections are appreciated.

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He didn't figure he'd be able to pick up his jaw anytime soon. It was still rolling around at his feet, unbeknownst to him. The woman grinned out the right side of her mouth, exposing pearly, braces-straightened teeth. She was pretty under there, hidden beneath heavy sheets of mauve and deep maroon sunken into pale skin.

"I think you-- have the wrong person, Harley Quinn." He spoke slowly, like he was talking to a wild hyena waiting to pounce. Ironic, considering her babies were still slinking about in Joker's basement. Since she'd gone he was having trouble figuring out what to do with them. She hoped he wouldn't kill them. Then again, she wouldn't be surprised if he did.

"Nah, I know I got the right Bat. " He fidgeted nervously for a moment, then his steel blue gaze met her's with a resigned intensity, "Ya really gonna sit there and deny it, Brucie?"

He flinched, his stomach flipping inside out. Should he go on denying, insisting? Should he continue with the persistent fact that he was _not_, in fact, the 'Batman'? She was too stuck on the issue and was there any way to make her disbelieve? He flinched inwardly for a moment, then sighed and decided he'd bite the figurative bullet. His demeanor changed almost entirely.

"Why are you here, Harley?" The grin split a little wider, easing, now. She _had_ expected a _much_ larger fight and was somehow relieved it didn't erupt. The butler was still standing there staring, almost dumbfounded. It was like he'd never seen a girl in a clown-suit before.

"I'm givin' up on Mistah J. Ain't nowhere else I can go, so I figured why not just hide out here?" She shrugged nonchalantly and paced the length of the floor, running her fingers along the furniture. This place really needed a woman's touch, she thought. It was too dark, too gothic. It was as though he stopped being Batman, but not really. Who owned this much _black?_ "Either that, or I get to tell Commish your little _secret._"

He knew he was regretting this already.

He was begrudging this decision when he listened to her high-pitched, endless whistle. She was in worse shape than he thought he'd ever seen her in before—when she'd went to the bathroom to prep for a shower the limp was noticeable, the entire awkward gimp in her step almost threw off her balance. Harley Quinn was a talented gymnast and, for her, not being centered was unheard of. The moment she was mildly off it was as though she was sloppily inebriated.

It was stupid that he was worrying. She was a _villain_, for goodness sake. And worse, she was the Joker's _accomplice. _This whole thing was probably a ruse, anyway.

But he couldn't help but wonder just what Harley Quinn had uttered to get the hell beaten out of her just like this.

The shower turned off after what felt like an eternity, and when the bathroom door opened out poured a magnificent rush of searing steam. The second surprise was that the incorrigible Harley was wearing nothing but her undergarments due to the fact that her skimpy, one-piece spandex suit was stained almost entirely with red. She couldn't very well wear filthy clothes, now could she? No! And Bruce glanced over a moment, his eyes straying around the mottled mess that was Harley's physique.

Other than the obvious fact that she would _seriously_ need some thorough bandaging he couldn't help but notice that she was incredibly well built. In spite of the dark bruises that highlighted her ribcage, the sticky-looking red spots that were the remnants of cuts, there was a completely lean quality to her that was eye-catching. But why was he so fascinated? Because Harley without her makeup was remarkably beautiful.

Her hair was the palest platinum he thought he'd ever seen on a woman, and her eyes were _such _a shade of blue. It felt wrong, foreign and altogether filthy to be ogling the Joker's supposed 'girlfriend' like this, but it was impossible when she was very nearly naked. And he was only a man, after all, whether it was a Bat one or not.

"Rude ta stare at a lady, Brucie boy." It was just weird enough to make him cringe for a moment when he regained his bearings (despite the ever present _ahem_ in his system) that _this_ was what Harley looked like under pounds of greasepaint and cheap black (or occasionally blood red) lipstick. Somewhere under there she was just a girl, just female like the rest of the feminine race. It was not as though beneath the gaudy Maybelline products she did not exist, or was a disfigured alien who used all the stuff to hide that fact. Beneath the tawdry, unattractive piles of cover-up she was a genuine human being. With impressive abdominals.

He could only mutter apologies.


	3. Reform and Trust

Thanks to all you reviewers and readers for the advice! I didn't think of the idea, Taka, but I'm going to do just what you said and let he and Alfred discuss on Harley's current state of living. I appreciate the suggestion! And thanks to everyone in general. Also, to Wolvmbm, I won't lie that it's a bit rookie-mistake-looking, really, because the problem was that I wanted to write a Harley/Bruce fic before I lost the idea of the pairing, so I'll admit wholeheartedly that this thing is a little bit rushed. So it's less Bruce's rookie mistake and more my rookie mistake, ha ha. Anyway, don't own these kookie characters, and this is a weird turn from writing the Joker like usual, so on with the show!

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"Alfred, don't you think there's another way out of this?"

The millionaire was clearly flustered by the predicament. He'd shown Harley to the bandaging and the antiseptic, and then let her have at it. If she wanted to teepee his bathroom, he could honestly care less. It wasn't his main priority right now—and, besides, she was causing more trouble for him than she was worth. Who ever thought walking around almost butt-naked was okay!?

"The way I see it, Master Wayne, this is a sort of vague opportunity. This doesn't seem fitting to be a scheme set by Joker and, perhaps, Miss Quinn is genuine in her desires to escape. Besides, should she report your identity to Commissioner Gordon, whether he believes her statement or not, it would inevitably lead to a troublesome investigation on the premises." Bruce frowned, the expression wrinkling the corners of his pale-blue eyes. He was going to have to house her and put up with her, but another issue was brought into play. She'd need clothes, wouldn't she? One couldn't start a new life without a new wardrobe.

"A new opportunity?" His face set into a thoughtful expression. The so-called 'playboy' of Gotham City seemed to never cease new ideas. It started to hatch in his head, a quick kind of scheme. Harley's new life would come fully equipped with whatever virtuous goodness he could shove down her throat, complete with moralistic reasoning and the promise that he would never, ever beat the ever-loving snot out of her like it seemed Joker had. He nodded, the brief grin of sorts appearing on his thin lips. "That's brilliant, Alfred."

"Of course it is, sir."

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He'd found a t-shirt and a pair of old shorts for the woman, both faded from age and far too large for her. He'd gotten an oversized black t-shirt from a comic book store in the middle of Manhattan when he'd visited. Printed in large, white lettering with an arrow pointing up, it said 'This is my secret identity'. The wit of the shirt had struck him almost immediately, and the irony wasn't at all lost. He just didn't find many occasions where he was capable of just wandering around in lazy clothes, as his mother sometimes used to refer to them as. He was too busy cooped up in stuffy suits he hated, with stiff, starched collars and well-to-do jackets. He hated the imprisonment of formality. It was as strangling as a turtleneck.

The shorts were almost more comical. They tied with a drawstring (lucky as that was), and the cargo pockets drooped almost to the floor in seeming defeat. Harley could hardly maneuver in them without having to ball a fist around the crotch of the things and hold it up while walking. All of this was sufficiently embarrassing if you added the duck-like gimp she'd acquired. She swore he was getting back at her by kicking life up to monstrously difficult.

He didn't say a word when he walked into the room. He was surprisingly quiet, for a tremendous man, but his gargantuan size could be easily muted with a little of his ninjutsu training. He kept even more silent when he noticed her trying to get back into the bathroom with a dangerously low success rate, instead failing to realize it was not a pair of double doors and smacking her face right into the wall. The black eye didn't even allow her a sliver of vision.

Truth be told, the unholy yip of pain she let fly was enough to make Bruce's own ears hemorrhage.

He and Alfred had just finished assessing sleeping arrangements for the (hopefully former) criminal in a bedroom beside Bruce's own. That way, if she decided to do anything shady, he was right next-door to hear it. He didn't trust her as far as he could throw her and that was pretty damn far. But god knew that Harley didn't do anything quietly, especially not when it came to the subject of illegal activities and what it took to carry them out. The clown was just as ostentatious as her 'boss', if not even worse. Harley's voice could shatter glass, and Harley's entire being screamed obnoxious. Well, when she wasn't screaming obnoxiously.

"Sonuva…" and the colorful insults just kept coming as she rubbed at the side of her face, wincing with a comically high little whine of discomfort.

He'd interrupt the scene then, he decided, as gently as possible. Maybe if he gained a little trust she'd be more apt to go toward the straight-and-narrow. No matter how hard it was, he decided he'd do his best to be a friend.

"If you come on, I'll show you to your bedroom, Harley." Your bedroom that I can lock from the outside, he thought, and the room's only window was a tiny, stained glass ordeal close to the top of the high ceiling. It let in a remarkable amount of light, but it was really inaccessible. Bruce had always thought of how stupid some of his parent's decisions were, sometimes. As a boy he wondered the practicality of everything on the Wayne estate.

The clown glared with a single powder blue eye and followed, moping with a childish pout and a notable slouch. Bruce's outlook was surprisingly sunny. Maybe this would be some kind of blessing in disguise?

Only time would tell.


	4. Changes

Completely quiet. In the silence, Bruce was somewhat proud of himself. He could even be considered borderline smug. He'd been lying there for quite awhile, staring up at the ceiling in thought. She really wasn't so bad, was she? He could almost get used to her, to be honest. When she was removed from the heinous clown she was almost a person. She had a brain, she had her very own sense of humor, and he even assumed she might have a heart.

Yes, Bruce Wayne had done well. He assumed everything was all right. The fact was that Harley was desperately trying to figure out how to get out of the room because she'd realized a sudden claustrophobia that hadn't surfaced in years and here it was, clawing at her skin. Still clad in the millionaire's 'civilian clothes', the woman found herself a little frantic.

And, to top that off, the door was locked. Not just locked, oh no, locked from the _outside._ Now _this_ was a genuine nightmare.

The Bat was supposed to be hospitable, nice, the goody-two-shoes she assumed he would be. She figured he'd play knight in shining armor, swoop on in with a valiant flourish and then steal her right off her feet and put her in a protective case of his own. She _did not_ assume the Bat would precautionary measures like this. Then again, in spite of her credentials, the good doctor Quinzell was not a genius.

She kept on jiggling the handle, though, like in some form of twisted, backwards defeat it would give if she became pathetic enough. She didn't like the dark, either, and in her highly un-photographic memory she hadn't memorized the layout of the room enough to know where a light switch was. So there she was, Harleen Quinzell, a claustrophobic, achluophobic clown scratching like a puppy wanting to be let in.

The whimper, as uncannily relative to a pup as it was, seized the air and poked through the wall as though her voice carried magical properties.

Elsewhere, the blonde's next-door neighbor stirred. Bruce's snowflake blue eyes creaked open and he groaned at the sound. It was inescapable. He'd been having a dream about a torrential swarm of kittens licking him repeatedly, and he assumed that was brought on by the very noises Harley made. He shuddered. And the way they _mewed._

It didn't take him long to figure where the source of the tiny voice singing _frères Jacques _in a shaky, nasal tone was. When he braved the cavernous recesses of his room (almost gothic in its setup, really) and unlocked the bedroom beside, he found the culprit.

A disheveled looking Harley had started the crap out of him when she fell face-first into the carpet at his feet, flailing her arms in the beginnings of what she meant to get his attention with. Instead of hitting door, she wound up grabbing at great fistfuls of air and her balance failed. This was a gymnast disgraced.

"Why are you throwing a fit on the wall?" Bruce's bear-paw of a hand rose to his eyes, rubbed them one by one. He was exhausted, but that was just the kind of sleeper he was. If a solid, six-hour block wasn't acquired he woke up feeling like he'd been mauled by Catwoman.

"Ya locked me _in!"_ She shrieked, and finally pushed herself up on her elbows where she'd nearly started crying. Harley's uninjured eye met his blue one and a diminutive pout stretched across her lips. _What a child._

"Did you expect me to give you the keys to the castle?" That was the second problem with waking the hibernating Bat. Sarcasm was kicked into full gear, a trait that otherwise came across as somewhat charming when utilized right. Instead, the millionaire couldn't mask the fact that he was, frankly, _annoyed._

"No, but I didn't expect ya to _cage me up!" _This point curled her fists into the carpet, squeezing tight, anxiously clawing the shag.

"Just go to bed, Harley." When he turned to retreat he stopped short.

Mind you, the young Master Bruce could have easily pulled away. He could have lifted his leg, stepped forward and escaped Harley's grip with the grace and poise of a shadow-walker. He could have defied her petty display of strength without even the remotest show of his own.

But he didn't.

Why he didn't was beyond him. Why he didn't just callously move back to his chambers without regarding the simpering clown at his feet was _utterly_ quizzical.

"Don't lock the door." This time, though, she was pleading, and he responded by glancing down at her with an expression that went from piteous to stone cold. His eyelids were drooping. If he didn't sleep, he was going to fall into it on his feet.

She didn't like being pent up, did she? He thought about this for a moment, pensively pushing aside the reasons he didn't just leave her there where she was. She didn't like being enclosed like some sort of animal in a glass case. For a moment or two, he related to her. He understood it, and he didn't think he liked the feeling very much, himself.

He stopped himself before he knelt, instinctually going to stoop to her level. The girl was still perched around his ankle.

"I won't lock it if you promise to be here in the morning." This was a display of utmost faith on his behalf, as far as he was concerned. The mess of bruises and yellow hair nodded eagerly, looking much more like a seal being offered a treat. The oddest part was that she hadn't been _trying_ to go anywhere in the first place. The simple fact that she was isolated without escape sent her into enough of a frenzy that she'd just wanted a way out.

He was beginning to get more used to it, he thought. Without her jumpsuit (Alfred would be assigned to wash that messy thing) and the makeup, the silly jester hat, Harley Quinn was beginning to morph into a real, live human before his very eyes. It was strange; he wouldn't deny it, pinpricking and tingly like being covered in buzzing insects. He felt almost as though he was seeing something that shouldn't be seen, like a five year old hugging a costumed Barney only to see the man remove the dinosaur head moments later to eat a hotdog. He felt like he was witnessing some act of backwards nature. It was _too_ strange for him.

"Cross my haht." She made the motion, in fact, finally letting go of his leg to sit up on her knees and smile shakily. He was surprised her lip hadn't split.

Against his better judgment, Bruce Wayne skulked back to bed.


	5. The Thin Line Between

When Bruce Wayne woke, his schedule had been thrown off-balance. He wasn't okay with waking at noon (unless it was a weekend, then he allowed himself a few special privileges) and he wouldn't have it on a consistent basis. It was all Harley's fault—waking him at an awkward hour, tossing the proverbial hands of his inner alarm clock into a tizzy.

He was, to the say the least, grumpy.

Bruce's typical routine was a regimented one. During the week, he woke at seven o'clock in the morning, stalked down to the Bat-cave, put himself through his own personal training routine and then ate breakfast at ten once Alfred had prepared it. Breakfast consisted of bacon, eggs and toast or, if he was feeling seriously adventurous, cinnamon pancakes. Cinnamon was his favorite. He'd also found that he was fond of snicker-doodle cookies more than anything, but that was off-track and beside the point.

When he _did_ finally wake, he couldn't do a thing but lie there. He found himself chest-deep in thought, idly swirling curious concepts in his mind. Harley had him trapped in a corner, but could he really trust her? She was known to be as psychotic as Joker on several accounts. Was she using this little front in order to get something from him; codes, secrets, downfalls? He felt like a part of him wanted to kick her out, identity or no, and suffocate this situation before it could get any further. There was this incessant little chiding in his conscience, though, the Batman in the back of his mind who said _maybe she wants to be good._

_Maybe she wants to be good._

The thought, he told himself, was naïve, perhaps even juvenile. He was _Bruce Wayne._ There would be none of that childish _maybe she could reform_ drivel if he could help it, but he was so thoroughly conflicted. So he did what any man of logic would possibly do. He made himself a pastrami sandwich and weighed his options.

He took a notepad and began to scribble. One: _Joker is inhospitable and cruel. Injuries. Escape. _The word stood out on the page, almost like it glowed in neon. **Escape.**

Was that what she'd been doing? Trying to escape? He stopped, slipped his chin into his hands, and leaned unceremoniously against the countertop. That was a definite possibility. The condition she'd come to him in was downright deplorable; he'd noticed it, too, broken bones and fractured parts. And he kept a close and careful account of the pains he inflicted on his enemies (though he kept them to a careful, nervous minimum with Harley—Harley was an enemy, yes, but some elusive concept kept him from _really _hurting her), those wounds were not his signatures.

Unbeknownst to him, sitting there innocently with a pad and pen perched in his kitchen, Bruce was slowly humanizing the femme jester. With each reason, each stroke of the pen, Harley Quinn was slowly disappearing. He wouldn't outright admit that he was beginning to think more and more about _her_ and less about Harley. Her name had been Harleen Quinzell, hadn't it? Budding doctor of psychiatry, graduated from her college with top marks. Harleen Quinzell had been a woman played and everyone knew it. Even Poison Ivy, renowned for her ruthlessness, had shown a compassionate pity on the wounded doctor. The truth was, despite her psychosis, Bruce didn't think there was an honestly malicious bone in Harley's body. Her disposition seemed almost untouched by the crime-world she immersed herself in, in fact. Harley's entire personality was sunny with no chance of rain. Maybe it was the naïveté talking again, but Harley was a product of what most influenced her.

He remembered hearing about it, sifting interestedly through her patient files. She'd been Joker's therapist and, through some sick twist of freak-fate, had fallen head-over-pointy-elf-shoes in love with him. But what had driven her to that? It made no sense to him, but slowly the pieces were beginning to come together. He'd sweet-talked her—innocent, wide-eyed Harley—no, Har_leen_—and promised her everything. He'd gently cooed her into his arms with promises that she could fix him, with promises that _he_ could better _her_.

It was all making sense. The further he delved, the more illuminated.

"G'mawnin'!" And there was the culprit herself, invading his living space. She was dressed, this time, in only a very, _very_ large white t-shirt and nothing more. Amusedly, Bruce raised an eyebrow and wondered what this would look like should Alfred happen upon this sight. In true, delayed reaction form, the caped crusader flinched at her ear-shattering tone. He casually shifted the notepad into his lap and scooted further into the counter, mustering his own smile.

"Good afternoon, Harley." The name didn't feel right, then, and it left a funny taste in his mouth. _Her name had not been Harley. It wasn't what she was born as, wasn't what she'd graduated college as, wasn't the person in that t-shirt._

"D'ya got any grub around here, or is a gal s'posed to starve?" It didn't take moments before she began to perform her own interrogation on his kitchen cabinets. The area was vast, but she managed to pick apart the fridge and all its contents. Soon enough, Bruce watched as she created a concoction she assumed no one had ever understood before.

She took out the peanut butter first, and he figured _alright, fine, who doesn't like peanut butter? _(especially since he was a fan of the smooth kind—the chunky just had _too many peanuts)_ but from there it went into a downhill spiral of confusion. She sought the marshmallows (which he seldom used except for cocoa in the winter) and then procured the barbecue sauce from the fridge. As Bruce Wayne watched in illicit horror, Harley Quinn began to make herself a peanut-butter-barbecue-sauce-marshmallow sandwich shoved between two slices of innocently unsuspecting white bread. She cut the crusts off meticulously, and he began to rethink his options.

No, _this_ was no criminal.


	6. Perhaps

He observed her as she went. It wasn't like any kind of interrogation he'd ever been in. His fists were still at his sides, after all, and his mouth was clamped into a too-firm line that made his jaw twitch on its hinges. She ate like a wild crocodile of some sort, consuming in what Bruce could only call a maw. He'd almost completely detached it, then, the concept of her villainy.

After all, she had barbecue sauce _all over her mouth._

"Whatcha plans fuh today, Brucey?" The good doctor dragged a napkin across her lips and let forth an unceremonious hiccup-burp that sounded more like some kind of cartoon character noise. His eyebrow rose. Where was Alfred to diffuse this situation?

"I—have a meeting at four. It all depends on when and if the Bat signal goes off." Those words caused a choke in his throat. _When the Bat signal goes off._ Was he really sharing this with the woman who, only a week ago, had been his nemesis' _girlfriend? _(Could he call it that, though, _girlfriend?_)

"Oh." Was all she said, but the sound was deflated. It was strange, and he dwelled on it gently. _Oh._ Like she'd been disappointed unwrapping a Christmas gift.

For the next four minutes, eating his pastrami sandwich, it stuck plaintively in his head. _Oh._ Like he'd crushed her clown-dreams into nothing. Why was she so miserable?

Before he could speak a word about it, she seemed to intercept his thoughts. She caught the football long before he could.

"I was just hopin' you could show me 'round here. It's awful big." His thoughts were beginning to dawn, slowly at first, then with a quicker precision. She wanted _him_ to show _her_ around. It was as though she was asking him on some kind of perverse _date._

_Date: A social or romantic appointment or engagement._

And his stomach dropped straight down to his heels. There he was, gripping the counter loosely, swaying on the stool._ Date._ Why had he thought of it way? Why did the concept scare him into a corner? She'd just kept sitting there, her lower lip stuck out in a quivering pout, her whole expression downtrodden. He felt like the Grinch, suddenly—there was a feeling in his chest like his heart was growing _two sizes too big._

Apparently, the words also grew too big to_ stay in his mouth,_ "I'll cancel the meeting and tell Lucius he'll have to keep them at bay without me."

There was something that happened on her face, then, something like glee, or something like an explosion made entirely of happiness. Resentfully, a stirring in the millionaire's gut said _it's not like I wouldn't do it, anyway. I hate being around all those corporate copies of each other. They make me so __**tired.**_

For someone who fought to deteriorate corruption in Gotham City, Bruce found that he spent a lot of his time acting incognito to mingle with the very scum of the metropolis. Businessman in pressed, black suits with too much hair gel and far too much alcohol. Businessman who conducted affairs with their secretaries and their maids and _hell knew whom else._

There were two masks to Batman, one would find, the mask that kept him apart from the human populace bustling below, and the mask that kept him kindred to them. Bruce Wayne was nothing more than a visage, and so was Batman. Where was the real person in there, anyway?

Was he even real?

"Really? Thank ya, Brucie!" And without thinking, the blonde leaned over to press a swift kiss to his cheek. It was messy, uncomfortable, a sign of affectionate he could have lived without. It was unneeded and almost stupid, if you asked him, but somehow it felt as though she'd poisoned his face. All he could do was stare.

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He found that, in the span of two days, he was beginning to regret a number of decisions. The next decision to regret on his list was this: cancelling an important meeting to socialize (yes, _socialize) _with Harley Quinn. As they walked, the endless corridors of Wayne Manor awaiting his tremendous steps and her meek ones, he began to mull a number of issues over in his brain. First off: How was he going to present these issues to Barbara and Dick? He was running the situation over and over in his head and still an answer hadn't roused itself.

And then it was perfect. It smacked him in the face with the sudden force of a baseball at ninety miles an hour. She didn't _need_ to be Harley Quinn _at all._ No, if he was going to reform her, he was going to do it one hundred and ten percent correctly.

He was going to build her from the ground-up. He was going to create Harleen Quinzell—no, not Harleen Quinzell, someone entirely different. She'd need a name, a job, a _life_ to go with this new decision. And she'd have to change, above all things.

"Carrie," he blurted, without thinking, without knowing, and she stopped to look at him as though there were fleas crawling out of his nostrils, "Carrie. Your name should be Carrie."

Gently, she tilted her head, her eyes widening like she was concerned with his mental health. Because, truth be told, she very much was. The man had been stoic, freakish and _gone_ since they'd first been acquainted and here he was, blathering about nothing. She reached up on-Pointe to gingerly pluck a leaf from the tree in his courtyard. It gave way with a slight tug.

"Whatcha tawkin' about?"

A tremendous grin began to form in his lips. It was slow, at first, then it was like he'd triumphed over some mythical beast. This was the look of success.

"Carrie. Carrie Ay-Zee will be your name. And you'll need to get a job, and you'll need to do something else besides that. If you're going to stay here, you're going to benefit."

Suddenly, Harley was considering it. Could she do this, anyway? She didn't want to go back to Joker, not under any cost, all she wanted was Ivy, but—no, she needed to sort things out, to clear her head, to bring to light the epiphany that would make sense out of the tangled stupidity she called a life.

Harleen Quinzell nodded and said, "Ya got it."


	7. Consider It

"Carrie Ay-Zee?"

Harley tilted an eyebrow Bruce's way, and the millionaire glanced over with a sheepish grin. It was astounding, he thought, how quickly the two had become almost comfortable around each other.

"Well, do _you_ have something better in mind?" It was beginning to look a little overcast, but he was used to it. Gotham weather wasn't exactly attractive. In fact, sometimes he thought it rivaled Seattle.

"Well, ya couldn't do somethin' a little more subtle?" He seemed to look over at her every few moments, she realized, like he was trying to assess her, somehow fit her into a puzzle-piece in his jigsaw of a mind. She'd known long before he'd even started doing it, accustomed to the strange little peeks. Bruce Wayne was acting remarkably like a fifth grader with a juvenile crush. Some part of the good doctor was flattered. "Carrie Anne Zelluh."

He paused for a moment, unstuffing his hands from their safe places inside his pockets. To his surprise Harley hooked an arm through his nonchalantly, acting almost as though he wouldn't notice the action. He would've jerked away, too, if it weren't for the fact that for some strange reason he didn't find it all too terrible. In fact, it was something he could, perhaps, get used to—

Why hadn't it kicked in yet? He wondered it silently. Why hadn't his mind rebelled harshly with some defensive _she's a criminal_ tactic?

"Well—that's a little better than mine, I suppose, if you want to get _fancy_ with the names."

"It still makes Ay-Zee, it just makes A to Z without spellin' it out in a last name. See? Anne Zelluh—Ay to Zee." She grinned, then, satisfied with herself, and Bruce saw all the brightness in that expression. In its hopeful little glint, the guy wondered why Harley put up with all the Joker's guff. She was a clever woman. Hell, he might have even called her intelligent.

"We'll need a sidekick name for you. You can always be my temporary Batgirl, since mine is—" He bit his tongue, almost letting the statement tumble out of his mouth. _Barbara is in college._ And divulge more identities to the Joker's plaything, here? No. "—unavailable, right now."

He would have kicked himself if the risks of putting Barbara in danger were there. _He_ was a totally different story. And then the sudden flood of anxious memories occurred to him—when Dick and Barbara returned from college, what would they have to say to him? _Oh, hey, Bruce, how are you and oh, by the way, how's the psychotic clown-crook sleeping in the bed right next door? Oh, she'll be staying for a while? Good. I always wanted to get to know the Joker's kinky habits._

"I guess I could try that, for a change. It's gonna be real weird."

Weird for _her?_ He smirked a little, truth be told, and it very nearly started to widen that continental jaw of his. _He _was going to be the one running around with her on his arm. How strange it was going to be, getting used to her, thinking of her like—

Like a _person._ Not like an enemy, maybe even not like a friend, like a _person._

That wasn't going to be an easy task, but he found he was managing it quite well, if he said so himself.

"I'll give it a shot, Brucie boy."

_Elsewhere, not so far away in a poorly decorated hideout_

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARLEEEEEEEEEY!"

The table downstairs shook, the one that seated four men in clown masks intently trying to play a rousing game of poker. Blinky, the scrawniest clown working for the Joker in hopes he'd make a big heist, glanced over. He was, in fact, attempting to put himself through college on robbery money. So far he found you couldn't pay tuition with a rubber chicken and a bottle that sprayed seltzer, nor could you threaten your dean into free classes. This didn't work because you had to be around your dean for the entirety of college—a drive-by-threat wouldn't work like he'd thought.

So Blinky (once known as Cooper Anderson before being given over to clown-induced-anonymity) trudged his way upstairs after losing a battle of rock, paper, scissors to Bozo, Ringo and Jax.

"Y-Yes, Boss?"

The man's hysterical green eyes flashed suddenly, hotly, so much that the boy's hazel ones nearly felt as though they shrunk.

"Where's Harley?"

He shrunk, then, though, about three feet in size to his already five-foot-ten height. He wondered if Joker would notice if he just ever so casually slipped into a corner and never unfurled, tucked into fetal position and living off crumbs.

"She left, Boss, right after you kicked the shit out of her and said you never wanted to see her stupid face around here ever a-a-a-again."

"And she isn't back yet?"

Blinky shrunk again, his demeanor helpless to the smoldering green and purple monster before him. The Joker was a master of knife-wielding intimidation and was only swayed by the concept of Batman. They swore he obsessed over the creature in the bat-suit.

"Get Ivy on the phone and ask her where queen chuckles is. If she doesn't know, it's on you, buddy-boy, to look for her."

The henchman swallowed hard, washing away all kinds of tenderized anxiety with the gulp, and slunk out of the room with a heavy gait. Why did he have a feeling this wasn't going to be easy?


End file.
